Five Boys Dean Never Was
by wild wolf free17
Summary: And One Man We're Glad He Never Became.
1. I

**Title**: Five Boys Dean Never Was(And One Man We're Glad He Never Became)

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters except for the ones who are. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU in every regard; implied child abuse; character death

**Pairings**: John/Mary

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1265

**Point of view**: third

* * *

**5 **

"Mommy!"

Mary looked up from the cookie dough she was making towards the den where her children played. "Dean?" she called.

"Mommy!" he shouted again. "C'mere and see what Sammy's doin'!"

She smiled and lowered the cup of flour, wiped her hands on a towel. Dean watched Sammy like a hawk and every time her baby did anything—walked, moved his head, laughed, pooped, said his nonsense words—he would tell her or his daddy to come see. It was adorable how enamored, how _protective_ Dean was.

Mary walked into the living room and saw Dean crouched near Sammy, who was on his back, kicking his legs and waving his arms, laughing softly.

Dean smiled up at her. "He's a sillyhead, Mommy," he told her, unable to contain his own smile.

She grinned and leaned down to pick him up. "You're a good big brother, Dean," she said and spun around, making him laugh, too.

Mary lowered him back to the floor and asked, "You wanna finish the dough, baby?" He nodded empathically and she gestured towards the kitchen. "Go on, then, love. I'll get Sammy and be right there." Dean rushed off and she picked up her youngest, the knowledge that she had the best sons in the world filling her with joy.

**8 **

Cassandra watched the boys. This batch probably wouldn't be any better than the others, but she always hoped. The previous supervisor for this house had told her that hope would run her down quicker than anything else, but Cassandra kept on at it anyway.

Daddy always said she was a fool.

Four new boys were ushered into the house, ages six to ten, followed by Mr. Johnson. Johnson always creeped her out, but she had no proof of anything so she never told anyone. There was one six-year-old, one eight-year-old, and two ten-year-olds. The six-year-old was small, clutching a ragged bear close. The ten-year-olds were big, both tall for their age, and wide—brothers, Cassandra expected, fraternal twins. At least they had each other. And the last boy, silent and still. Most children, no matter their gender, circumstances, or age, always moved, some part of their body in constant motion. But this one…

Mr. Johnson handed her four files and smiled at the boys before hurrying out.

She set the files on the coffee table and sank onto the couch, observing them as she picked one of the folders up. The six-year-old curled up on the floor in the corner, pulling the bear up to his chin. The brothers settled onto the love-seat and started a conversation; from what she could understand, it'd been going on for a while. The eight-year-old continued standing just inside the door, staring at nothing she could see.

By chance, the folder she started reading was his. She sucked in a breath as she skimmed his past: his entire family, mother and father and brother, was killed in a car crash on the way home from the hospital after his brother was born. He was then shuffled from one aunt or uncle to the next till he was found wandering the street. Poor boy. She looked up as she murmured his name and met his hazel eyes. He was solemn, resigned. She tried to smile but found that she couldn't.

_Hope will kill you_, Monica had told her. Cassandra could see this child was already dead inside.

**12**

John threw the glass bottle against the wall and smiled when it shattered. He sank back into his chair and yelled, "Boy! Bring me another beer!"

He heard the fridge open and shut softly, then a bottle was pressed into his hand. The boy tried to slink away, but John grabbed his shoulder.

The boy had grown again. John tried to recall his name or anything about him. Hs mind remained blank, though—but beautiful hazel eyes and blond hair flashed at him for a moment before the drunken haze chased them away.

John tightened his grip on the boy's shoulder and asked, "Who are you?"

Hazel eyes wide with something he no longer had the capability of recognizing shone at him. "Dean, sir," the boy whispered and slowly pulled away.

John let him go, opened the bottle, and drained half in one gulp.

**15**

The house was quiet. Sam softly shuffled down the stairs, hoping Mom would stay asleep. Once he hit the first floor, he moved quickly; if he could reach the door, he was home free.

Behind him, something scuffed against the wall. "Going somewhere, little brother?"

Sam turned, though he knew he shouldn't, knew he should keep on, ignore the voice, the vision—

_Dean was dead_. Mom _told_ him so, it was all in his _head_, and the shrinks said the same _thing_.

But Sam looked anyway. He was taller than Dean now. Taller and broader.

Older.

Sam had just turned sixteen, but Dean grinned at him, forever fifteen.

**17**

Daniel couldn't wait for the day to be over. Last day before Winter Break always took forever to pass. The students grumbled and couldn't sit still, and the teachers weren't much better.

But finally, the final period rolled up. One more hour and no students until January.

He watched the kids trudge in, all seniors. Seventh hour study hall—almost no work was ever done and half of them weren't even there the majority of the time.

But Daniel could always count on one student to do all his assignments. Then the boy would pull out a book and read the remainder of the time, or he'd offer to help grade papers. Sometimes, he'd open a notebook and start writing. Daniel knew a bright future awaited him; he was the best baseball player the school'd ever had.

Studious and sporty—if one let him down, the other'd save him. Daniel knew it.

But sometimes, he watched Dean and wondered why the boy didn't seem happier. He was the only child, with two devoted parents.

The day was almost over; Christmas hovered just out of reach. Maybe Dean would return after the new year with a smile.

Daniel doubted it.

**23**

Melanie knows someone's following her. Dad warned her, but she didn't listen. A mafia princess trying to escape her past—no one here knows who she is, what she's running from.

Dad kept his promise—no one's guarding her. How could she have been so stupid?

She picks up the pace; once she reaches her apartment, she'll be fine. She's only nineteen—she can't die.

_Bullshit_.

Melanie starts running and laughter fills the night around her. There's a soft pop, almost unnoticeable, but then pain blooms in her right leg. It's the worst thing she's ever felt, and fire shoots up from her calf to her head and back down. She falls hard, unable to even scream, the hurt is so much.

Somehow, she notices the man kneeling next to her. Over the roaring in her ears, she hears him say, "'lo, Melanie."

She's nineteen and she's not immortal. She doesn't listen as he explains why he has to kill her and make it _hurt_. He elaborates with something about a message and money, but she's never been interested in Dad's business. Death doesn't change that.

She's nineteen and she's not invincible. The world around her is dark and cold, and he doesn't apologize, that much she knows. She looks up at him, numb to everything, and what she pulls with her into the abyss is how unfeeling his hazel eyes are.

In another person, she might have called them beautiful.


	2. Ghost Tears

**Title**: Ghost Tears

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: AU

**Pairings**: mentions of John/Mary, implied Dean/Sam

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1080

**Point of view**: third

**Notes**: a continuation of _age fifteen_

**More notes**: Yes, the tenses shift. My apologies

* * *

He doesn't remember the accident. Mom does, though. She never talks about it, but he's heard her crying in the night. 

Sometimes he hears shrieking metal in his mind, or smells blood. He tells no one—the doctors did what they could. Parts of him are broken, can't be fixed.

Momma explained it to him, told him Dad would never be back. "He's gone home to Heaven, baby," she said, voice trembling and eyes misty.

For the longest time, she never spoke about Dean. For the longest time, he couldn't remember his brother.

He remembers hearing the doctor from a distance. "Head wounds are tricky things," he said and Momma sobbed.

He got better, though. By thirteen, two years after, he'd fully caught up in school and remembered most everything from before the wreck. He knows he's not what he was—school's a bit harder now than he recalls, but not by much.

When he turned fourteen he had a vision. Dean appeared before him, Dean with a bright grin and shining hazel eyes, Dean with laughter and jokes—Dean he didn't really remember but missed so much it hurt.

He asked Mom and she just looked at him. "Dean is dead," she told him, voice cold. She never mentioned him again.

Two days later she brought Sam back to the doctors.

Dean didn't reappear for three and a half months. And when he did, Sam ignored him. He wasn't real, he wasn't there, he'd been dead for _three years_.

"Sammy!" Dean finally shouted and Sam whirled around to face him.

"You're dead," he whispered. "You're _dead_."

Dean smiled sadly. "I know, little brother," he answered. "I know."

Sam never told Mom that he saw Dean again. That he talked with Dean. That they sometimes sat in silence for hours, just... well, being brothers again. It didn't bother Sam, most of the time, that Dean was a ghost, that they couldn't touch, that Dean had no breath.

But then sometimes… sometimes, Sam was quite sure he'd lost his mind. He wouldn't move or speak, wouldn't acknowledge Mom or teachers or kids at school—or Dean.

For an entire year, that was his life. But after his fifteenth birthday, he never saw Dean, never heard Dean. He thought maybe he'd finally gotten better. Maybe he was moving on.

And then, his sixteenth birthday neared. He'd skipped a grade, had a job, was cooking most of the meals and cleaned the house. Mom hardly ever went outside anymore. She had no life outside of her memory and TV. Sam had a future planned, an escape out of this nightmare.

"I remember the accident," Dean whispered in the dark of Sam's room at midnight. "I remember."

Sam didn't respond. He just kept on pretending sleep.

But Dean was back. He didn't often speak anymore, but Sam would see him. See him in the kitchen or the mirror or out in the yard staring at the sun.

Dean still looked like the last picture ever taken of him, fifteen with shaggy dark blond hair and hundreds of freckles and jeans and a white shirt. He was still around 5'10"—Sam wonders how tall he should have been.

Every time Dean appeared, Sam's eyes skittered away from him. If Sam ignored him, he'd go away. He would.

Dean only spoke whenever he saw Mom. On her few trips from her room, she'd pass Sam. She'd say nothing and she didn't smile. Dean would follow her with his eyes, and Sam never knew what he'd say. Sometimes, "It shouldn't be like this." Or maybe, "Mom, why have you given up?" And one time, Sam thought he saw tears on Dean's face.

A trick of the light, of course. Ghosts can't cry.

He doesn't remember the accident. Sometimes he dreams of metal shrieking and then silence—sometimes, he hears Dean scream his name. But he woke in the hospital after as a half-orphaned only child.

Before, he didn't believe in ghosts. He still doesn't—Dean is a figment of his imagination. His guilt at surviving. If he tells himself that often enough, it'll become the truth.

Then he turns sixteen. He has to escape the silence of his house, the stifling noiselessness. He has to get out, to _live_—

He just hit a growth spurt—he's six foot three.

Whenever Dean appears, he's no longer the big brother. Sam hasn't spoken to him in almost two years. Hasn't hugged him in over half a decade.

Mom will be dead soon, joining her son and only love, leaving Sam completely alone. Though, if he's totally honest, Mom died years ago.

The house is quiet, like always. Still. Sam softly shuffles down the stairs. Mom won't hear him, and even if she did, she wouldn't do anything, but it's habit now. He pads through the hall to the front door; freedom stretches out beyond it.

Behind him, something scuffs against the floor and he freezes. Dean has never moved anything before.

He turns slowly; Dean leans against the wall, a smirk twisting his lips. It's an expression new to Sam, looks out of place. "Goin' somewhere, little brother?" Dean asks, voice as unfamiliar as the smirk. He shoves off the wall and Sam knows he should run—if he leaves the house, makes it off the property, Dean can't follow.

But this isn't Dean. He feels—_wrong_. Even more broken than Sam thinks himself to be.

If possible, Dean's smirk grows even more terrifying.

"Tell me, Sammy," Dean says, "What do you remember?"

Sam backs away slowly. Dean lunges forward and grabs his shoulder—the touch burns and he gasps.

"What are you?" he demands and tries to pull away, but the grip is iron.

"Your guilt," Dean answers, and laughs.

-

He doesn't remember the accident.

Dean grins at him, forever fifteen, and he grins back, not a day over sixteen.

People say the house is haunted. That a crazy lady used to live there, her and her boy. His body was found but the woman had vanished. Children dare each other to go in—some never return.

Dean used to promise they'd live forever. Sam knew then, and he knows now, Dean never lies.

Sometimes, shrieking metal echoes in the still house, or blood lightly pools on the floor. But only sometimes.

Ghosts can't cry. And they don't know if they're unhappy or not.

People say the house is haunted. If so, no hunter has hunted there yet.


	3. Broken Smile

**Title**: Broken Smile

**Disclaimer**: Dean's not mine.

**Warnings**: AU before pilot

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 510

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Notes**: continuation of _age 8_

* * *

"Get on down here!" Cassandra called from the kitchen, placing a plate of toast and eggs on the table. "Your breakfast is gonna get cold 'fore you've even touched it!" 

"Comin', Mama Cass!" Dean yelled back and she heard him trump down the stairs. He silently padded into the kitchen, in black jeans and a black shirt.

She frowned at him, having hoped he'd dress less depressing for his first day as a senior.

Dean shrugged with a smile. "Might as well not falsely advertise, right?" he asked, but she saw the pain in his eyes.

It was a losing battle, but she had to say, "You've been mourning for almost fifteen years, Dean. Don't you think it's time you let them go?"

He didn't answer, just sank into his chair and started eating. Cassandra gently ruffled his hair and kissed the top of his head.

-

Everyone had told her it'd be a mistake to adopt the troubled boy who never spoke. Monica said she was placing too much stock in the hope that she could heal young Dean Winchester.

She loved him, though; had from the moment he first walked in her door, a solemn and silent boy. He entered her heart as easily as he entered her house, and she feared the day the system would move him on.

For three months he lived in her home. The twin boys who came with him left first, and the sweet six-year-old was soon adopted. Cassandra watched Dean with worry, wondering if the sore on his soul would ever heal.

Finally, she just decided to keep him herself, forever. She'd been unable to have kids of her own, and she'd never found a man worth keeping, but this broken little boy worked his way inside her heart.

A year after Cassandra met Dean Winchester, everything was finalized. He was her son, in all but blood. It wasn't easy—he refused to trust her, having been burnt too often. He rarely spoke and never met her eyes.

It was hard, raising a broken boy that trusted no one, but by the time Dean was thirteen, he actually told Cassandra he loved her. He wasn't free with physical affection, and she doubted he ever would be, but he no longer shied away at her touch.

He didn't enjoy school and loathed crowds, but because Cassandra asked, Dean tried his best. His schooling before the adoption was spotty, so she tried to give him stability. He was a smart boy—he'd just never had cause to use his abilities before.

Dean wasn't friends with anybody that she could tell, which saddened Cassandra. But he was trying, and she couldn't ask for more than that.

-

"Want me to drive you?" Cassandra asked as Dean finished breakfast.

He shook his head. "Thank you, Mama Cass, but I'll walk."

She kissed his cheek goodbye, hoping that maybe this year he'd find someone worth keeping.

"I love you, Dean," she called and he turned to smile over his shoulder. Such a gorgeous smile—she wished he'd share it more.


End file.
